


oh and I hope you don't mind (we can share my mood)

by sansastarks



Series: Wish I Knew You [1]
Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Rhaegar Won, F/M, Romance, Salty Teens, Smut, jon broods in any universe, jonsa, until they're sweet on each other
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-03-04
Updated: 2018-08-09
Packaged: 2019-03-27 03:44:45
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 11,160
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13872417
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sansastarks/pseuds/sansastarks
Summary: “You make presumptions, your highness.”“I do not. I know how unwanted I am by you, Lady Sansa.”Her mouth opens as she struggles to find the words to tell him it isn’t true. She’s a lady. She would be nice if he would. She just wants— She just wants—--When the king travels north, Sansa takes an immediate liking to Prince Aegon. She does not, however, want anything to do with her cousin Prince Jon—the brooding, dark haired, younger brother. She's quite sure he does not want anything to do with her also. And by the Old Gods and the New, she will not let him ruin her mood.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> 1) Hello! Welcome to my first Jonsa multi chapter fic. This is also my first "series". I expect this story to be 2-3 chapters total. I will do my best to update them sooner rather than later. I have spring break coming up and hope to upload the rest of this story then. It's still a work in progress.
> 
> 2) This is the first part of my series called "Wish I Knew You". This series is based on the song "Wish I Knew You" by The Revivalists. I got major jonsa vibes when I listened to it and then when I read the lyrics. I definitely recommend checking it out! So really, they're all just connected because the title of each story is taken from that song. Each part of the series will be unrelated. I expect there will be 3 parts. I had originally intended for each to be one-shots, but I felt as if this particular story was better split into a couple chapters. 
> 
> 3) This is a Rhaegar won AU. I've played around with ages and had some fun buffing up Rhaenys's character in particular. Since it hasn't been clearly stated in the fic: Jon is 18 in this.
> 
> 4) Disclaimer: I do not own anything related to the HBO series "Game of Thrones" or the book "A Song of Ice and Fire" by George R.R. Martin. I do not own the lyrics to "Wish I Knew you" by The Revivalists.

_His white hair is sleek, his pale skin unburnt despite his years in the sun in King’s Landing. He reaches one hand out, pulling her close._

_“Sansa, darling,” he says._

_Her heart feels full. His eyes scan over her and brighten as he meets her gaze. There’s a protectiveness about him that she always wanted in a husband. His smile is large and handsome, challenging that of even King Rhaegar’s. He twirls a strand of her hair around his finger as they stand in silence._

_Aegon. Aegon. Aegon._

_He smiles again, pressing his lips to hers. When he pulls away, Sansa can only stare in wonder. How elegant and proud and proper he is, her prince._

——

Sansa smiles at the memory of her dream. Ever since it was announced that King Rhaegar and the royal family planned on traveling to Winterfell, the Stark household was in a flurry. Tales of the king’s bravery and strength had been relayed to the children, but they had yet to see it for themselves. Queen Elia’s Dornish beauty was praised also. Sansa did not know if she was traveling with the rest of the party. It was not often spoke of how the king had taken Lyanna Stark as his second wife for a brief time until she died on the birthing bed. 

Their cousin, Jon—as he’s so plainly called—Targaryen, the younger prince will be with his elder siblings, Rhaenys and Aegon. She knows that Robb is eager to see them both. The rest of her siblings are excited to see all the royals as well, especially since they can claim one as a blood relation. Her brother writes to the prince, but about what Sansa does not know. She knows Arya loves being informed of their cousin’s latest doings though. However, Sansa cannot focus on much past Aegon. There have been whispers, according to her septa, that the king rides for Winterfell in order to forge a betrothal between his heir and Sansa. Of course, there have been other whispers that he will wed his aunt, Princess Daenerys. These whispers, Sansa ignores. 

Arya brings it up constantly in an effort to frustrate Sansa. Sansa would say she was jealous, if she wasn’t so sure that her little sister was too preoccupied with anything Jon related. 

_“He has a dragon too you know. They say he’s bigger than Rhaeneys’_ _and Aegon’s.”_

_“Robb heard that Jon has started besting Aegon with a sword! When they visit, I want to watch them both fight.”_

__

__

_“I bet he can speak Old Valyrian. Did you not try to learn with Septa Mordane once? Mayhaps the prince could teach you.”_

Her cousin is talked about too much for Sansa to not ponder him for a moment. She supposes if he’s similar to Aegon then he might have some merit. After all, he _is_ Targaryen for all he is Stark. 

Sansa is pulled out of her thoughts as her maid begins lacing her corset. “The dark blue dress, my lady?”

“Yes. I want my hair different as well. I want a bit more pulled back. I bet the prince is used to many fancy Southron styles.”

Her maid’s murmured agreement is heard as she helps ready Sansa for her presentation. At fifteen years old it is important that she present herself in the best light. Her job as a lady is to secure a match. As it is, there have been whispers from the highlords that it is improper she remains unbetrothed.

She’s been told she has the prettiest face in all the North. She will rely on that now.

— — 

“The king is almost here!” Bran cries.

Her siblings eagerly dash out while Sansa walks beside her lady mother. Her palms flattened her dress, a nervous habit she picked up. Aegon would step off his horse and he would see her and he would love her. He _had_ to. Sansa was only three moons away from sixteen. The wedding would not be put off too long, even if her father wanted that.

The horses appear out of a cloud of dust, their riders prideful with straightened backs. Sansa’s lord father kneels and the rest of Winterfell follows. Their king is here and they are loyal to the Targaryen dynasty. 

Sansa is eager to raise her gaze. She has never seen royals. She wants to see the prince for herself. Her eyes bore into the dirt of her homeland as she hears shuffling around and the stomp of boots.

“Arise.”

Her father stands first, followed by everyone else. Sansa thinks her father’s voice sounds a bit stiff as he recognizes the king. King Rhaegar then draws his attention to her lady mother, a murmured compliment, before he moves further down the line.

“You are a beauty,” King Rhaegar says. His lips are slightly turned up, though the sentiment does not reach his eyes. With his second wife dead and his first wife remaining all the way south in King’s Landing, Sansa supposes she understands why. 

After going down the line, the king gestures for his children to step forward. The princess is introduced first. Her hair is braided and pinned up. Her eyes hold a kindness as she greets each Stark. Next, Aegon is introduced. Sansa’s stomach flutters at her first true look at the prince she shall be promised.

“Lady Sansa. You were said to be as pretty as a winter rose and I see that is true,” he says. His smile is similar to his father’s.

Sansa feels the warmth spread across her cheeks as she dips into a curtsey. “My prince.”

He offers one more smile before moving down the line. Her smile is wide as she chances a glance at her lady mother. A throat clears, drawing her attention away. 

“Lady Sansa.” The voice is clipped. Her eyes meet dark brown ones with tiny flecks of purple in them. She is tall for her age and so he only stands half a head taller than herself. 

“Prince Jon,” she says, dipping down again. Sansa smiles as a lady is supposed to, but it quickly dies as Jon Targaryen meets her with a blank stare. His brow furrows for a moment, before he nods. 

“Jon!” Arya cries. 

Sansa opens her mouth to reprimand her younger sister, just as her mother would, when the prince smiles and ruffles her younger sister’s hair. Horror sweeps through her at the impropriety of it all. A darker part of her whispers that it is also because no boy, _royal or not_ , has snubbed her for her unruly sister. It’s with bafflement that she watches him warmly greet her younger siblings. None of them have ever met any of the Targaryens. Only Robb as a babe has had that privilege. Mayhaps Jon and Robb correspond more than she was aware? She is quite certain she has never done a thing to offend Jon Targaryen, yet it is as if he knows that every mention of his name brought on an eye roll from her. 

Sansa raises her chin as she follows her lady mother back inside the castle. She will _not_ allow Jon Targaryen to ruin her mood.

— — 

As Sansa breaks her fast, she chances glances at Aegon. Is this how their future meals might feel? He’s got a hardy helping, but eats with all the grace a crown prince should have. It’s a bit frustrating though because he has not glanced at her since they greeted each other as they sat down. He is much more entranced with Robb’s stories of hunts in the Northern woods. He listens with rapture and every once in a while Rhaenys draws Robb’s attention with questions about stories of wildlings and fowl creatures beyond the Wall. 

Arya adds in bits here and there, when she’s not rambling on to their cousin. Their cousin. His eyes drifted to her only once, and then not again. 

Out of all the Starks, she must be his least favorite. Sansa would scorn him, but a lady’s duty of hospitality forbade her from doing so.

She thinks he must laugh whenever Arya mocks Sansa’s feminine pursuits behind her back. Sansa knows she isn’t like her sister. Isn’t like other northorn women. She doesn’t need Jon Bloody Targaryen laughing about it too.

— — 

Rhaenys comments on Sansa’s dress, calling it impeccably sewn. Sansa blushes, smoothing out the nonexistent creases. Aegon and Jon appear, their horses tethered nearby. Aegon offers a gentle smile, exclaiming that Sansa’s dress matches her beautiful eyes. Sansa’s eyelashes flutter as she thanks the prince. Her gaze is on him until he nudges his younger brother. They wait for Jon to speak, until finally he scowls at the ground and mumbles a greeting. Rhaenys’ lips twitch as she entwines her arm with Sansa’s, leading them away. 

Sansa feels as if she is on a cloud. She chances a look back at the princes. Aegon is chuckling, until he stops, resting a hand on Jon’s shoulder. He lowers his head slightly as a serious expression comes over his face. 

Rhaenys tugs her out of her thoughts though as she begins to speak of music lessons and the new piece she is trying to master on the harp. 

“I’m getting better, which pleases father. I believe he was relieved one female in our family is musically inclined. Dany— my aunt that is— is not so talented in that department. Though Aegon is pleased enough to play for her,” says Rhaenys. She sends a look Sansa’s way. “Jon enjoys some songs as well, though he is loathe to admit it. He is not talented at performing either, but he makes up for it with his skills in swordsmanship. You would enjoy watching him, Sansa. It is as if he is in a dance.”

She hums in response.

— — 

Her lips are set in a line as she watches him sword fight with Robb. She supposes she sees a bit of Targaryen in him when he dodges Robb or thrusts his upper-half forwards and to the sides; he seems almost graceful then. _Like he’s dancing._

They do not know she is watching. Surely they do not because they undress till they stand in only their breeches. Robb, Theon, and Jon Targaryen. It’s quite undignified. A thought slips in unwanted in Sansa’s mind, that makes her wish that Aegon were with them. 

They pick up their sparring swords— no real swords as Mother won’t have their ward wound the prince— and face off again. This time is _much_ different. Sansa sees small beads of sweat slide down Robb’s neck and wrinkles her nose in disgust. Theon wipes his brow before his attention is drawn away by a serving girl. He moves towards her, his back shiny under the light. Sansa makes another face. Her attention turns to Jon though and it’s entirely different. She can trace the movements of his shoulder blades. And when he _turns!_ His bare chest is broad and smooth looking. He is not overly muscled, but she can still see them defined on his stomach. Her eyes drift south of his navel before she tears her gaze away. Sansa can feel her cheeks aflame. It is the most unlady like thing she has done—looking upon Jon Targaryen so. It is just that he could be described as someone from a song with the way he carries himself and the way his body is defined.

Her cheeks are burning as she stares at them with a mixture of horror and fascination. The “what are you doing” that comes from behind, sends a jolt through Sansa, pulling her out of her daydream.

“Arya! You should not sneak up on a lady. It’s rude.”

“What were you staring at?” her younger sister asks. Arya’s hair is in two braids wrapped around each other. It would like quite nice if there were not strands falling in her face from running. 

“I—“ Sansa stutters, “I thought I heard shouting and wanted to make sure no harm had befallen our guests.”

“Seven hells,” murmurs Arya. Then, she peers over the edge. Her bored expression morphs into one of excitement at seeing the older boys. “You dummy, they’re just practicing.”

Sansa’s cheeks heat up again. Even though her sister is young, she manages to make Sansa feel the fool. Clearing her throat, she says, “Well we shouldn't pry. They must want their privacy.”

“Well then they should not be in the open. Let’s go down there, Sansa. You would not believe Jon could best anyone, but I bet he will beat Theon _and_ Robb.”

“You would root against your own brother?”

“Oh, honestly. I root for a good fight. Anyways, I bet if your precious Aegon were there, you would pray to the seven he beat our brother and all the rest.”

Sansa searched through her mind, but as she thought of a rebuttal, Arya was busy pulling her down towards the boys. 

Horror swept through Sansa’s body as Arya announced their presence. Robb gave a grin in greeting, an eyebrow raised at Sansa’s presence. 

“Ladies,” Rob murmurs, humor evident in his tone.

Jon is unalarmed at Arya’s arrival, but when his gaze flits to Sansa, his eyes darken. Seeing him up close, shirtless, gives Sansa a shaky feelings. Her breathing is shallow as she allows herself a quick sneak at his torso before meeting his eyes.

“Robb. Prince Jon,” she says, bowing her head in acknowledgement.

Arya rolls her eyes, tapping her foot impatiently, “Jon, Sansa believes that Robb and _Aegon_ would beat you bloody.”

Sansa’s jaw drops. She is not sure which is more scandalous— the gory word choice or the meaning of them. Robb catches her eye, doing his best to silence his chuckling. Jon’s eyebrows have shot up, his focus drifting from her sister to her. 

Her cheeks and neck must be the color of her hair for they feel so inflamed. “My Prince, I-I did not say such words. I would never wish to disrespect or disgrace you or the crown. I—“

“Seven hells,” groans Arya. It’s her favorite expression these days. “She just doesn't want to believe her precious Robb and Aegon aren’t as good.”

Her sister and herself are both wearing wider skirts; it’s with easier discretion that Sansa kicks her sister’s right calf. She will repent to the Gods for her moment of unladylike behavior later. 

Jon’s face held amusement up until Arya’s last claim. His face was back to brooding, his eyes hard once more. “I see. Well, Lady Sansa, my brother is one of the most gifted swordsmen in all of Westeros. Mayhaps the most gifted—in time. Mayhaps you will have the pleasure of seeing him in a tourney one day.”

Arya shook her head, tugging on Jon’s arm. “That isn’t true and you know it! _You’ll_ be the most gifted.”

“Oi!” Robb cries, though his face breaks into a full blown grin.

Jon’s words rang in Sansa’s mind and she felt discomforted. She eyed the prince as he absorbed Arya’s words. His lips switched, but then he remembered Sansa’s presence. His mouth sets in a firm line. “I must bathe and find my brother and sister. If you will excuse me.”

She does not know why she suddenly gives a care about Jon Targaryen, but she feels something. And it all seems ruined. 

— — 

She finds him at the Heart Tree. Sansa is a bit surprised; she knows the Targaryens worship the Seven. His shoulders are hunched, his left hand pressed against the wood. She pauses, unsure how to proceed. Mayhaps she should scurry away, tail tucked beneath her legs. But no. No, for she is a wolf. 

Her skirts rustle, alerting him to her presence. He turns, shocked to see her here. 

“I am sorry, my prince. Have I interrupted your prayer?”

He shakes his head, glancing back at the tree. “No, my lady. I-I was just admiring your Heart Tree. It is magnificent.”

Sansa tilts her head, gazing up at it. She doesn’t often reflect on its beauty. Nodding her head, she replies, “It is said to be the handsomest of its kind in the North.”

“In all of Westeros. We have a Heart Tree in King’s Landing, but it is meager compared to yours.”

“Forgive me, my prince. I did not know the royal family kept the Old Gods.”

“They do not. My father has raised all his children in the light of the Seven. But my mother, my mother was of the North and so she— well, I would like to feel close to her and her kin, so I visit our Weirwood.” 

His eyes would not meet her and the tips of his ears were tinged pink. He had never spoken so many words to her and Sansa felt something stir in her belly. 

“I am sorry for your loss, Prince Jon. I believe my Aunt Lyanna would be touched by such a devotion. I know for my own lady mother, it was hard leaving her home. My father had a small sept built… religion is comforting.”

“For some, yes,” Jon whispers. 

“Still, I should hope to see your Heart Tree, should I ever have the fortune of traveling south.” 

Her words seemed to spark something in him as his back straightened and his face soured. “Oh, _yes.”_

Sansa bristles as his tone. The tender moment was gone, but she is not sure why. Squaring her shoulders, she asks, “Have I done something to offend you, my prince?”

His eyes narrow as he stalks towards her like she is prey. “It’s—it’s,” he struggles for words. “It’s _you._ ”

Sansa feels the Stark part of her come alive, her eyes flashing in anger. “I beg your pardon, my prince. I have been nothing but courteous to your party and—“

“To Aegon, you mean.”

“You make presumptions, _your highness._ ”

“I do not. I know how unwanted I am by you, _Lady Sansa._ ”

Her mouth opens as she struggles to find the words to tell him it _isn’t true. She’s a lady. She would be nice if he would. She just wants— She just wants—_

He pulls her to him in one swift moments. There’s a squeak of surprise she emits, before there’s nothing. Their breathing is rushed and hard and their chests press against each other. They are eye level and their breaths mix in the cold. There’s a look of confusion and something in his eyes, before he presses his lips to his.

They are soft. Warm and soft. They move slow at first. Sansa feels light headed and shocked. His tongue presses against her lips causing her to gasp. His tongue slips in her mouth. Sansa has never felt so inexperienced, but she echoes his movements and suddenly it’s even _that much better_. Her actions spur him on and he pulls her closer, one hand stroking her cheek. 

They gasp for a quick breath, and then he’s pressing her back into the Weirwood as their mouths move against each other hurriedly. She moves her hands to his shoulder blades, edging him closer. Jon lets out a low moan at the contact. It’s wonderful and Sansa’s confused but it feels like something out of a song. _So right. So right._

Then, his hips begin to move against hers and it’s a whole other new feeling. Her skirt is a bit of a hinderance, and for the first time ever Sansa is annoyed with her attire. His hips begin to snap harder and she lets out an involuntary cry of approval. She wants more of _this_ , she thinks, whatever this feeling is. 

Her sounds seems to break his trance as he tears away from her. His eyes and pupils are blown wide, like a deer’s. His breathing is haggard as he stares at her. With each passing moment, his brows furrow more. Sansa tries her best to read his face. She thinks she sees shock and fear and anger, even. At her? 

Oh what has happened? Sansa’s arms shake as she stakes a step forward. “My prince—“

It is not the right thing to say. Jon’s face is pure anguish now as he looks upon her. Sansa opens her mouth to attempt to say more, but he turns on his heels; he retreats with his pace somewhere in between stalking and rushing. 

Sansa does not know whether to soar or crumble. Her fingers press against her lips; they are cold again.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 1) Okay, first off, big apology to all of you because I said I wouldn't make you wait even three weeks. I think it's been like five?? I am so sorry because I did not anticipate it taking this long. I have been very busy in my personal life. There have been many things demanding my time, deadlines, etc. 
> 
> 2) This is related to above, I actually struggled writing this and that is part of why it took so long to update. The reaction to the first chapter was AMAZING. I sat for probably 10 days with 700 words and no clue where to go. I actually wrote one of the later scenes first because that's all I had imagined so far. Of course it makes sense that I then go on to write this which is almost 300 words longer than last chapter. Truthfully, I was not sure how many would be interested in this story, so I was blown away. Thank you so, so much for all the kudos and comments. It means the world to me to know that people appreciate my writing and are getting enjoyment from it. I'm sorry if I didn't respond to your comment, but know I read it, and it means a lot to me. (Shoutout to the 'Jon you potato' comment, that made me laugh.) Seeing the response to last chapter pushed me because I didn't want to let you guys down with this chapter. I worked to get it to the level that the first chapter was. I hope I did that. 
> 
> 3) The characterization was big for me. Sometimes, in past stories I've read and in my own writing (definitely) the characterization won't always match up with the previous chapter(s). The big thing for me (and the struggle) was making sure that this chapter flowed from the last. I have edited this to the bone. I've taken out huge chunks, added huge chunks, and gone in and changed specific words. It's tricky because their relationship is far different from where it started (thank you Heart Tree kiss), but I did not want that to cause an immediate, huge flip in character. 
> 
> 4) So hair is big this chapter. They are inspired by Dany since she's the only female Targ hair we've seen. I didn't pick them based on whatever her character is doing in said hairdo though. Rhaenys is from Dany's s7 look: https://goo.gl/images/Cwv5E1  
> Sansa's is another Dany look. I don't know what season it's from... I think it's an earlier one though. I chose this because it looks the most different from the Sansa hairstyles we've seen over the seasons. I think you know why Rhaenys chose this. Here's Sansa's: https://goo.gl/images/NuKtQ1
> 
> 5) Next chapter will be the last. I know I told one commenter that I would reveal all the details regarding marriages this chapter. Initially, that was the plan. Instead, I decided to keep Sansa in the dark a bit longer. You will get your answers next chapter, as will she. She definitely needs them. Their relationship is progressing, but they definitely need to talk more. I hesitated putting the 'I love you' in there... but ultimately, Sansa still has fanciful ideals in this world, an open heart, and if she believes it then she believes it. 
> 
> 6) I think there was more I was going to say, but this has gotten long enough. If I think of something else, I'll write it on Tumblr. I hope you enjoy more Rhaenys this chapter. There's also less Arya, sorry to disappoint. Thank you all for reading! Enjoy!
> 
> 7) Disclaimer: I do not own anything related to the HBO series "Game of Thrones" or the book "A Song of Ice and Fire" by George R.R. Martin. I do not own the lyrics to "Wish I Knew you" by The Revivalists

Rhaenys pulls Sansa aside after everyone clears the hall. Her hair is woven in six different braids that tie together at the base of her neck before the rest flows loosely down. There’s strength and a regal air about her in everything she does. She is said to look the most like her mother with her complexion and smile. 

She notices Sansa staring at her hair and quirks her lips. “I do admire the Northern hairstyles. Sometimes, the best things are simpler.”

Sansa smooths her dress, resisting the urge to pat her hair. Offering the princess a smile, she replies, “I do try to emulate Southron styles, but we do not often get to see the latest trends this far North.”

Rhaenys shakes her head. “I imagine any style on you is befitting and then some. And, you know, Jon seems to always prefer the hair down and loose anyways.” 

Sansa’s back stiffens. Her graceful walk falters and she is sure she has scuffed her left slipper. _Jon_. Jon who kissed her beneath the leaves of the Heart Tree. Jon who supped in his room the last two nights and mornings because he could not be in her presence. Jon who all of a sudden consumes her mind the way Aegon had.

“Oh. A-And what does Aegon prefer?” 

Sansa knows it is a feeble attempt at diversion; she’s astonished to find that she does not much care what Aegon likes. Jon’s actions consume her thoughts too much to allow for any other concerns. 

Rhaenys’ brows wrinkle. “I had thought you and Jon warmed up to each other?”

“Why? Did the prince say something?”

“No—“

“Well then we must not have,” Sansa says. She winces then, realizing how improper she is acting by interrupting a princess. Her septa taught her better.

Rhaenys pauses, then a small smirk forms. “Perhaps, Sansa, I could help have your hair styled a certain way tonight that I know Aegon finds most pleasing. There’s sure to be music and dancing. My brother could not resist you.”

Sansa doesn’t know how to articulate her feelings. There’s a bit of elation because it’s _Aegon_ and he was all she ever wanted. Still, Jon slips into her mind, his face meant to remind her of something. Of everything.

“That’s very kind, Princess Rhaenys”

“Just Rhaenys, please. Afterall, it feels like we could be sisters.”

— — 

“What have you done to Jon?” asks Arya. They are supposed to be working on their stitching; their technique must rival that of Princess Rhaenys, Septa says. 

Sansa pricks her finger, the first time she has done so in at least a year. Embarrassment washes through her as she lifts her finger to her mouth, sucking on it a brief moment. Her sister’s gaze has not left hers. “Whatever do you mean, Arya?”

“I mean Jon’s been in a mood for days now. And everyone gets along well with him except you. Robb mentioned you just this morning in the practice yard and Jon got all sulky. Have you been going on about _dearest Aegon_ too much?”

Frustration. Mortification. Confusion. Hope. They fill Sansa all at once. “I have no idea what you are talking about. I would n-never treat the prince in such a manner. In fact, I find him—“

“Find him?” 

“Pleasing enough. He is family, after all.”

“Seven hells. We all know who you find most pleasing,” says Arya, snorting. Her lips are turned up and even though she is being more joking than disparaging, her words ring in Sansa’s ears.

— — 

“Prince Jon, may I speak with you?” she calls. His back is to her and his pace is meandering. It’s by chance that she has run into him, but Sansa knows she must make the most of the opportunity.

Once again, he looks like a spooked deer. “Yes.”

She moves closer to him, taking in the rigidness of his pose. “Are you well?”

“Well enough, thank you.”

“Truly? Arya claims otherwise.”

Jon’s cheeks turn pinkish. “If I was, I d-did not mean to be.”

Sansa knows she cannot keep up the farce any longer. Neither of them are addressing what happened; they are in a new kind of dance and Sansa does not like this one. Her eyes bore into his as she demands, “Why? Why did you vanish after what happened? You have not properly addressed me since.”

“I meant no offense, my lady.”

Sansa shook her head. “I suppose—that is—if you were disgusted with me, well… My behavior was most unbefitting.” Worries flit through her mind. She is not like the Southron ladies she so admired.

“ _Your_ behavior? It is I that should apologize. I did not treat you with respect,” Jon says. Seeing her confused countenance, he adds, “I-I _rutted_ against you like a common _beast_.”

With a blush, she remembers the feel of his hips rocking against her, filling her with an unknown urgency. _That_ is what he feels so awful about? “I hold nothing against you,” she replies.

His lips are still turned down. “Thank you, but nevertheless I apologize. It was a mistake.”

Sansa’s body tenses. His eyebrows are furrowed, a pensive expression on his face. Sansa feels something inside her plummet and presses her palm to her stomach. “If you will excuse me,” she says. 

Jon’s eyes lift from the floor to meet hers. “Sansa?”

“I am needed elsewhere and it would be a _mistake_ to further delay my absence.”

Jon’s forehead creases even more. Sansa’s nostrils flare. She’s always a lady, but she is tired of it right now. Jon Targaryen knows _nothing_. 

She does not know what she expects from him. Doesn’t know what she wants from him. Something winces and sags within her though when he lets her stride away.

— — 

Sansa is mad. She tries not to get mad often; it’s not what a lady is supposed to exude. But all her defenses have been slipping since Jon Targaryen arrived, so why not blame this on him also. She is mad at herself. Mad at him. Mad at the situation. _Mad. Mad. Mad_. That’s what the Targaryens do to others. 

It’s not a fair assessment. Deep in her heart, Sansa knows she does not believe her thoughts. It is just that she feels vulnerable and she does not relish in the feeling. Fragility, she feels, like a _little bird._

But under her Tully features, Sansa knows she has the strength of the wolf. 

— —

Sansa eyes Rhaenys from the mirror. The princess nods enthusiastically as another portion of Sansa’s hair is woven into a braid. It seems as if there are at least six. Rhaenys has her own handmaiden work on Sansa’s hair so that it is perfected. She nods as the braids are wrapped around each other. Sansa has never worn so many braids in her life. 

“There! The style is perfection on you, Sansa. You look like a _Targaryen_ woman.”

Sansa twists her neck, trying to see her hair in full. The braids criss-cross on the back of her head before wrapping around each other, and then, one long braid forms and hangs down the expanse of her back. It is the most extravagant look Sansa has ever dared wear. 

A Targaryen woman. Isn’t that all Sansa has ever dreamed of becoming?

Something flares within her when she thinks of Aegon’s face. Of Jon’s face. Glancing in the mirror once more, Sansa stretches her lips into a grin. _Smile_ , Septa Mordane always says. 

— — 

Sansa is flushed from all the compliments bestowed upon her since she has entered the hall. Rhaenys has certainly transformed her into _even more_ of a picturesque lady. Her eyes wander among the merry people chattering and drinking. 

Sansa supposes she may beg Robb for a dance. Her brother has adequate skill, but she loves that he tries for her. There are many with partners already. Sansa makes her way further into the hall, looking for the familiar mob of curls. 

_“Lady Sansa.”_

“Prince Aegon!” His hand is on her back, but she manages a small curtsy anyways. 

“You have had quite the transformation. My sister said so, but now I see it. You look ravishing,” he says, lips curling. 

“Thank you, my prince.”

Tilting his head to the side, he requests, “Will you dance with me? If you are not otherwise engaged?”

“No, I—“ Sansa blushes, trying not to let her mind wander to Jon. “I was going to find my brother.” 

“ _Your_ brother? Not mine?” asks Aegon, one delicate eyebrow raised. Not waiting for an answer, he extends his arms, taking her into hold. 

The music seems to grow louder as they join the group, twisting and turning. Sansa feels a flutter because she has never danced with anyone so well-known and important. No one of such large significance travels this far North if they do not have reason to do so. 

Aegon is as merry as the others on the floor, even looser than his normal confident self. She wonders if he has been in his cups already.

“You are one of the finest dancers I have had the privilege of leading, Lady Sansa Stark.”

A smile graces her lips. It is a testament to her hard work. “Thank you. You are a very talented dancer, my prince.”

Aegon nods his head in thanks. “Well, for all the reputations my family has in Westeros and beyond, I believe this is the most gentlest of them. It is the Targaryen way to embrace music and dancing. Everyone in my family takes part in dance, my lady.”

His voice has taken on an uncharacteristic softness, making Sansa pause. Glancing around the room, she finds the person that has taken up permanent residence in her thoughts. She is startled to find that Jon’s gaze is on them. He continues to glower as the song ends.

“ _Everyone_ in your family dances?” Sansa asks, eyes shifting between the brothers. 

Aegon follows her gaze and smirks. “Some of us enjoy it more, it is true. But, yes, even those who you would not think dance do dance. If they are given the right motivation.”

“And what are you going on about, Aegon?”

Sansa tears her focus away from Jon when she hears Rhaenys. The princess playfully pinches her brother’s elbow, before turning to Sansa. “I hope you do not mind if I steal my brother for one dance.”

“Of course not.”

“Yes, find another brother,” says Aegon, as he moves to pull Rhaenys towards the center of the hall. 

Sansa feels her cheeks flame up. Aegon is already pulling his sister into their stance, when he adds, “You know— _Robb._ ” 

— — 

A young Northern man heads towards her next. He is an Umber, she believes. His stride abruptly stops as Jon intercedes. He stands a respectable distance away from her, eyes narrowed.

“If I could have a moment to speak with you in private?” he asks. 

Sansa is torn. It is courteous to grant him his wish; it is what a lady does. On the other hand, she is cross with him and wants to make it known, however childish it is.

Jon begins to shift uncomfortably, some of his harsh persona waning. Pursing her lips, she says, “If that is what you would like, my prince.”

They both must look stone-faced as Jon leads her out of the hall. His pace is purposeful as he tries to put some distance between them and the party. It isn’t quite proper and Sansa thinks he must know this. He does not seem to care though and she will be darned if she lets him see her nervous. 

“You looked to enjoy dancing tonight.”

Sansa raised an eyebrow. His tone was bordering between nonchalant and irritation. “I do enjoy the act.”

“With my brother especially.”

“I was fortunate that Prince Aegon wished to dance with me,” she replies. Something begins to stir inside her. 

“You look like a Southron member of court,” Jon says, lips turning down.

Her lips twitch. “Do I not look acceptable, my prince?”

His gaze flies from the candlelight to her. “No you— that is— I believe you look lovely, my lady.”

“But not lovely enough to dance with?” Sansa asks. Her propriety regarding royals has gone, apparently. 

“I am not as skilled as my brother,” he murmurs. His frustration or whatever it was has dissipated. “Your toes would be at risk. I do not think you would like that.”

His cheeks are red and Sansa shakes her head. “I could not begin to count the number of times my feet have been harmed, and by family members no less. You undersell yourself, according to your brother.”

“And what do you think, Sansa?”

She tilts her head, eyeing his pensive look. He is an anomaly and familiarity all at once. “I think you know nothing, Jon Targaryen.” 

She takes him by surprise then, as she kisses him. It’s short and sweet. It conveys a small bit of everything though as his expression morphs. 

He stares at her in shock and something akin to wonder. His hair is pulled back this evening and Sansa finds she quite likes this look as well. 

In an abrupt move, he presses her back into the wall. His lips are on hers. Sansa’s sure there are splinters but _oh she does not care._ His hands rest lightly on her shoulders. Remembering the experience prior, Sansa opens her mouth, flicking her tongue against his. A growl emits from Jon as they struggle to get even closer to each other. 

Pulling away, he says, “Please sweetling, never wear your hair like this again.”

“I had thought—do the ladies of King’s Landing not all wear their hair in a similar fashion?”

Jon nods hurriedly. “Yes, many do. My _aunt_ in particular. But you are not like them. I would never expect you to be anything more than yourself. _Sansa_. A woman of the North. A Stark.”

Sansa felt warmth spread through to the tips of her fingers and toes. A tremble went down her spine. “Jon—“

“I’d never ask you to be anything you are not. I am familiar with the Tully words. Family is first, as it should be. Just as family is important to House Stark. I know I am not a true Stark, not when I was born and raised in the South. I may not be deserved. But, Sansa—“

“You are to me.”

“What?” Jon asks, puzzled.

“A Stark. I know you have lived your life in the South. I know you are the king’s son. I know you do not have the name. But you have the honor.”

Her tone is grave. Jon’s staring at her with an intensity unparalleled. He reaches out, thumb brushing from her cheekbone to her chin. His brows quirk as his eyes shift from her lips to her eyes. “I want to kiss you again now.”

Sansa does not trust her voice, knowing it will betray her desperation for him. She _wants him._ She expected the knowledge to hit her like a blow to the chest. Instead, the feeling washes over her, soothing her and making her skin tingle. Jon Targaryen had been the bane of her existence only several days prior. She had not cared to know him much. Now, well, Sansa wants to know everything. She wants to know him inside and out.

Realizing she has remained silent, Sansa whispers, “Yes.”

Jon’s eyes light up as he presses her against the wall again. His mouth is slanted against hers as they mold against each other. She feels his hand tangle in her hair, tugging softly. 

Sansa gasps, pulling away as the strands fall around her face. Rhaenys’ handmaiden’s work is unfixable. She must look somewhat ragged now, but then, so does he. A giggle escapes her. 

“What?” Jon asks. His eyes are darker and a smile tugs at his lips. 

Sansa shakes her head, the loose strands brushing against her cheeks. “I do not know. I cannot put it into words.”

Jon offers one of his rare, full smiles. “Sansa, I must—“

She shushes him, her finger pressing against his lips. She does not want the moment broken yet. A burst of bravery surges through her. Anyone who thought they knew her would be shocked at her thought. Sansa mirrors Jon’s smile, taking his hand and resting it against her left breast, near her heart.

Jon is frozen, a look akin to wonder on his face. “Jon.”

His eyes search her face for _something._ “I worship the Old Gods along with the New. You said my mother would be touched by such a devotion. You said that to me, when it was just you and I.”

“Yes.”

He sucks in a breath. “Sansa—“

_“Sansa!”_

Her head jerks to the side. The lighting is a bit poor, but Sansa can make out Rhaenys’ figure. Jon jolts, putting distance between them. What was he thinking?

“Oh. I’m sorry, I did not see you there, brother.”

“It’s fine, Rhaenys. I-I suppose I should rejoin the feast. It was pleasant talking with you, Sansa.”

He glances between his sister and her, before rushing back to the hall. 

Sansa schools her features. “I apologize if you have been searching for me long, princess.”

“Not long at all. Your lady mother noticed your absence earlier, but I assured her I knew where you were. Indeed, I figured you would be with one of my brothers. I guessed the right one too it seems.”

“Prince Jon and I just happened upon each other.”

Rhaenys nods, eyes twinkling. “Of course. I do suggest we rejoin the festivities. However, dear, allow me to first fix your hair.” She pulls on a copper strand with a tsk. “Poor Belinda worked so hard on it.”

— — 

The rest of Sansa’s night is spent twirling around the floor. The crowd is rambunctious, as is common for gatherings filled with Northerners. Every so often, Sansa catches Jon’s eyes. 

There’s a hint of a smile that graces his lips every time they find each other’s stare. Twirling in Robb’s arms, then Aegon’s again, then Theon’s, her eyes stay on him; her skirt makes a whipping noise and the faces surrounding her blend together in a mirage. 

When the song ends and Sansa curtsies once more, she raises herself to see him. He fits among them. He belongs here, in the _North._

 _I love you._ It slips into her head. This time, she does feel feint from shock and excitement at the idea. Perhaps, she does not love him in the capacity that her parents love each other. Not yet.

But she could. She could love Jon the way he deserved. She could love him for who he was. It would not be because he was a prince. It would not be because he had Northern blood in him. It would be because he was a kind man to her and to her family. 

Sansa had been wrong in her presumptions about him. It was true that he was a brooder; he was not glamorous such as his siblings. That was not what mattered though, not to her, not anymore. 

It is a lot to take in and so, she excuses herself. Sansa steals away, hiding in the corridor. Suddenly, there are voices and she wills her breathing to slow and quiet. 

She should not stay to listen; it is not lady-like. Yet, her feet stay planted as the voices fill her ears.

“You will jeopardize this. I will not have my son, my heir as a meddler.”

“Nothing was truly purposeful. I have not ruined anything more than it already has been” says Aegon. He lets out an amused laugh.

“That is not true for nothing is settled.”

“But I’m sure it will be. Just have him marry the Highgarden girl. All the boys moon over her already.”

“We both know Jon is not like _all the boys_ at court.”

Sansa’s eyes widen and she presses her palms over his mouth. King Rhaegar and Prince Aegon are discussing _Jon._

“Yes, but he hasn’t been properly introduced to Lady Margaery. One look at her with those doe-eyes and teal silk dresses should leave him appeased.”

“I will handle these matters,” the king says in a firm tone. “Perhaps you should spend this amount of time focusing instead on your own impending wedding.”

Aegon does not answer this. She hears the footsteps fade and draws her shaking hands away from her face. Jon. Jon and Lady Margaery. And Aegon. Aegon will be marrying. Aegon _will be marrying._

A choked sob escapes Sansa’s lips. Her heart pounds against her rib cage. Her shaky fingers smooth nonexistent creases in the fabric. Her dress is not silk. 

— — 

Sansa hopes her cheeks are not tear-stained as she makes the slow walk to her chambers. She craves privacy. 

Her prayers to be uninterrupted are not answered though as her lord father appears. “Sansa. You missed the rest of the feast. Are you unwell?”

“I’m fine, father. I believe I just need sleep.”

“I want to speak with you in my solar first. Your mother is waiting for us.”

Sansa frowns. “Is something the matter?”

Her father shakes his head. They walk in silence until they reach his solar. She is ushered inside where her mother sits, looking exhausted from the day’s events. “Sansa, love,” she greets.

Her father sighs, settling himself in his chair. “We having something important to tell you, Sansa. There is but one reason King Rhaegar and his party have traveled here.” He pauses to glance at her mother. “I was not in much position to disagree. Any doubts I may have had though are gone. I have always wanted to make you a good match.”

“Sansa,” her mother murmurs, squeezing her shoulder.

Her father leans forward, hands resting against his desk. “I believe he is worthy. He’ll bring you happiness.”

Sansa’s lips tremble. Her nails dig into the arms of the chair, fingers pressed against the wood. She winces then, her finger still somewhat sensitive from pricking it earlier. 

She wishes she had made it to her chambers. She wishes she were in bed, asleep, and dreaming of a dark-haired prince. He would always call her sweetling there too, she thinks.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Direct quote from "Game of Thrones" season 6 episode 10 "The Winds of Winter" written by David Benioff and D.B. Weiss
> 
> follow me on Tumblr: thkingslayer


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 1) World's biggest apology??!!? I am so sorry for leaving you until August without an update. You guys definitely did not deserve this. This chapter has been sitting on my computer since March. Unfortunately, school, work, and personal life kept me busy. Thank you all for waiting. Ugh, I'm a reader to and I know how frustrating it can be to wait so long. I'm sorry!
> 
> 2) I hope this chapter does the rest of the story justice. I hope it does myself and you justice. I spent way too long on it agonizing over details and flow and characterization. Obviously all important, but this chapter has honestly been ready for a couple days. I hope you enjoy it, as I actually find parts of it my favorite out of the whole story. There are parts, especially the end, that hints at my feelings/hopes/thoughts about canon-GoT and s8. I'd love to hear yours!
> 
> 3) For those of you wanting more Arya last chapter, you'll get it in this one!! We have our favorite younger sister featuring along with our girl Rhaeneys!! Hopefully you enjoy these last scenes we get with the characters in this realm! Also I watched the Sansa/Tyrion, Robb/Talisa, Edmure/Roslin, Joffrey/Margaery, and Tommen/Margaery weddings on repeat, so hopefully there's some semblance of accuracy and justice done with a certain moment. 
> 
> 4) This is the end of this story. However, this fic is part of a series called "Wish I Knew You" which will have a total of 3 (maybe 4) parts. Even though it will be different plot/universe, I hope you'll consider checking it out. I've already got most of chapter 1 written.
> 
> 5) WARNING: nsfw smut ahead!! Sorry for the premature tagging, but it's finally here. Thank you so much to everyone for taking the time to read and support me with this story!! I mean it, it has been so wonderful reading all your comments. 
> 
> 6) Disclaimer: I do not own anything related to the HBO series "Game of Thrones" or the book "A Song of Ice and Fire" by George R.R. Martin. I do not own the lyrics to "Wish I Knew you" by The Revivalists.

Her fingers go lax against the chair arms. Her father’s words echo in her mind. Sansa glances between her parents. They have encouraging smiles on their faces, her lady mother especially. 

“I-I—mother?” she asks. 

Her mother reaches out, squeezing Sansa’s hand. “Jon seems a respectable young man. I would think you would be happy, Sansa. He is a prince and not so interested in charming all the ladies, as his brother is.”

Her father clears his throat. “I believe Jon will do right by you. He is a worthy match.” 

“Yes, Father.”

“It is the king’s wish to see a union between the North and South. If you do not want this, Sansa, perhaps we—“

“No, it isn’t that, Father. I am just—I am surprised,” Sansa replies. “Does Prince Jon know?”

“Yes, he has been aware of King Rhaegar’s intentions with this journey. It is apparent the king has desired this match for many years.” 

_She was never to be Aegon’s wife._ This news does not break Sansa’s heart, rather, she feels only some annoyance at being played the fool. 

“This is much to take in, we realize.”

“You will handle this with all the grace of a lady though,” says her mother, pride slipping into her voice. “Just like you always have, my love.” 

Sansa nods, shoulders easing down. She doesn’t know quite how to feel, but she wishes she did. Giving her parents her best pleased look, she asks, “May I retire to my chambers?”

“Of course. And Sansa, you _are_ fine with this match?”

“Yes. I know I had a much more favorable opinion of Prince Aegon than his brother, but my sentiments now—they are, well, quite changed.”

Making her way to her chambers, Sansa believes her heart might beat out of her chest. There’s so much to think, to do, to say.

— — 

Sansa paces her room while waiting for a maid to bring her meal. Deciding to break her fast in her chambers is a coward move, but one she does not fully regret. She cannot face Jon yet.

When her meal is brought, the food is tasteless as she swallows it. Sansa gazes out the window as she spoons the porridge into her mouth. It’s only a knock on her door that brings her out of her stupor. Her spoon drops into the bowl with a clang. 

Darting her eyes to the door, Sansa winces. Everyone knows she has kept to the room and now she is trapped. 

Her chair makes a small screech as it scoots against the floor. It’s most likely her lady mother. Although Sansa would rather avoid whatever her mother thinks must be said, she knows it is inevitable.

“Come in.”

The slight pause as the door pushes open causes fear to swarm in Sansa’s heart. The motion is enough to realize it is _not_ Catelyn Stark who is entering her chambers. 

Her lips tremble as she takes in the sight of him. His head is bent and he rubs his neck in an embarrassed manner. “I hope I do not disturb you, Sansa.”

She frowns. This boy. This _man._

“Would it matter?” 

Her brisk tone catches him off-guard, head rearing back. His eyes search hers. “Of course it would, Sansa.”

“You did not tell me, Prince Jon.”

He licks his lips. “What? Or—that is, I— Father told me you were informed. Sansa, I would—“

“I do not know what to feel,” she says. “I had very different _expectations_ when I first learned of your family traveling here. How could I have imagined what would transpire? And I find my-myself confused because you could not trust me with this information. After, well, everything. I was the last to learn out of everyone about this betrothal. And you _knew_.” 

“I’m sorry, Sansa. It was wrong of me to act as if I knew nothing. I-I just understood there was a possibility that there would be no betrothal and I didn’t want— I’m not sure what I thought. Or wanted, that is.”

Her arms shake slightly by her sides. “And what of the Tyrells?”

His dark eyes slant slightly. Jon asks, “What about them?”

“I—“ Sansa’s cheeks turn rosier. “I overheard your brother mention Lady Margaery. Even in the North, we have heard tales that the Tyrells are famed for their beauty.”

Jon shrugs. “Along with their cunningness.” 

“Your brother did not describe her as such.”  
“That is just Aegon.”

“Did you wish to marry Lady Margaery?” she asks, knowing she is fearful of the answer.

“What? No. I—there was never a conversation about that. I do not know her.”

“You did not know me,” Sansa argues.

Jon’s ears turn red at her statement. He rubs the back of his neck. “Not entirely. I, well, I would sometimes inquire about you to Robb.”

“Robb _knew_?”

“No. It was just small details. I asked about your other siblings too. He thought me genuinely curious, which I was. I had never met any Starks after all.”

“What did he say about me?” asks Sansa softly. 

“He told me you loved sewing and Florian and Jonquil and dreamt of the South.”

Hearing the reluctance and uncertainty in Jon’s voice, she asks, “Is that all he said?”

“When he wrote about you, he created this image. He wrote with love of you, Sansa, truly. But, he also described you as so un-Northern. He said you liked _pretty things_ and Aegon and— I just— I know I am not my brother.”

Her head is spinning. Jon’s eyes bore into her as she grapples for words. “Aegon?”

He nods once. “I knew it was him you wished to wed.”

Sansa’s admiration for the crown prince was of course well known amongst her family. Arya and Robb teased her endlessly, albeit Robb more gently. She had never considered though that Robb might tell their cousin in one of his letters. Why would Jon Targaryen give a care about her? 

Did Robb report on how she would embroider Aegon’s name on old cloths, only to stash them later. She and Jeyne, heads pressed together, would giggle over stories of the prince and what it would be like to be queen. How Septa Mordane had her practice music more frequently in the hopes of impressing the crown prince. How when the trip was announced, Sansa had not given a care about whether Jon journeyed to Winterfell also. 

“I did not know,” she whispers lamely. “Do you not wish to marry me?”

“I wish to be deserving of you.”

Her head jerks back in surprise. A multitude of emotions swarm in her belly. “You are.”

“I was a fool.”

Sansa quips, “My own Ser Florian.”

Jon lets out a laugh. He’s got that bashful gleam in his eyes again. Jon. Her Jon. “What I feel for you, Sansa— I wish I was a poet, like my father and brother, so I could put it into words.”

“I don’t need pretty words, Jon Targaryen.” _I need you._

“Then we are to marry.”

Sansa nods, heart hammering against her chest. “We are.”

— — 

“I’m so thrilled I shall call you sister, Sansa,” says Rhaenys, as she braids Sansa’s hair in Targaryen fashion. She is showing Sansa a simpler style that is popular among those in King’s Landing, common and royal. The heat, she says, will bombard a Northerner at first. 

“I-I am too, Rhaenys. I look forward to traveling with you and learning from you how the South functions. I know Septa would come with me if she could, but Arya is here.”

Rhaenys chuckles. “It is fine. I’ve known for a while that you were going to be my sister-by-law, assuming things worked out.”

Sansa thinks of the subtle clues and nudges the princess gave her. It’s true, Sansa is a slow learner. Nodding in agreement, she replies, “I am glad too.”

— — 

Arya jabs her needle into Robb’s shirt; her movements are rhythmic and fluid. They are mending tunics today, a mundane but necessary task that helps them practice their skills. Arya lets out a loud sigh, plunging her needle mercilessly into their brother’s shirt once more. 

“What is wrong?” asks Sansa, setting aside her work. 

Her younger sister glares at her. “How could you not know? You know everything, Sansy Pants.”

Sansa blushes at the nickname. Offering a quick scowl, she replies, “I wish you would just tell me. It’s clear you wish to anyways.”

Arya shoves her work away, letting it fall on the floor. Sansa knows when Septa returns she will reprimand her sister. “You’re going to _marry him_.”

“Arya, are you jealous?”

“ _What_?”

“Do you wish you were marrying Jon?”

Arya wrinkles her nose. “Seven hells no! He is like a brother. But all you wanted was Aegon for forever and now you get to spend your life with Jon and dragons and—“

“But you never desired to go south,” Sansa argues.

“You just get _everything_ you want.” Arya yanks Robb’s tunic off the floor, creating a bigger tear in the material. She points her needle at Sansa, eyebrows furrowing. 

“That is not true. Everything happened to work out. I’m lucky, I know. And I hope you have this kind of good fortune also. And of course this will not be the last time you see him. You may visit.”

“You would let me?”

“Of course. You are my sister,” says Sansa, astounded.

Arya nods, setting her work down less forcefully this time. “I know. I— this isn’t really a goodbye, is it, Sansa?”

Despite her face displaying uninterestedness, Sansa can detect the hint of worry in Arya’s tone. She replies, “No. It’s not.”

Her sister eyes her for another moment. Sansa can tell she is not fully satisfied, but it’s something. Giving a small smile, Sansa says, “Let me help with that tunic before Septa Mordane comes back or we will be here through dinner getting scolded.”

Arya rolls her eyes, but grins as she hands over Robb’s mangled shirt.

— — 

There are small pearls embroidered into the bodice of the wedding gown. There are small fish details to represent her Tully heritage. Wolves embroidered with silver thread run along the train of Sansa’s dress. Overall, the gown is delicate and fierce all at once. Winter roses are tucked into her braided hair, forming a crown of her own. 

Although the Stark maiden cloak is heavy, it provides an undeniable comfort to Sansa. It rests over her beautifully sewn dress; her mother’s and her hard work protected. Sansa has spent many nights dreaming of this moment. The past few, she has finally had a face to imagine in her fairytales. 

Sansa stands in the middle of the room, glancing at her countenance in the mirror. Her cheekbones look sharper. The dress hugs her chest and waist, emphasizing her step into womanhood. Standing in her childhood room, dressed for her wedding, Sansa feels the world shift.

“It’s time, Sansa,” calls her father. He slowly pushes her door open, a small smile on his face.

His arm is outstretched. Gripping his hand, she says, “Thank you, Father, for this.”

Together, they silently make their way towards the ceremony; to Jon. Sansa knows a fair amount of people are in attendance, shoulder to shoulder in her mother’s sept. However, all Sansa can think of is Jon. When they reach the doors, her father carefully places her arm in the crook of his. The doors make a dramatic sound, opening to announce her arrival.

The sept is rather small, yet Sansa is sure the walk is the longest of her lifetime. She hears giggling and spies Rickon wiggling next to her mother, granting her a small wave. Sansa squeezes her father’s arm. 

Gently, he lets go, and Sansa is left with the septon and her betrothed. Her heart beats in happy recognition as she meets Jon’s stare.

As they stand side by side, Jon, gesturing at her dress, quickly whispers, “I like the wolf bit”.

Her nerves fuel her excitement as the ceremony begins. They are marrying in her mother’s sept. Although they are in the North, and she and the groom both hold ties to this land, King Rhaegar insists that the union must be valid in the eyes of the New Gods, as they are who most of Westeros worships. 

Sansa does not mind. But, she thinks, she will take Jon to the Godswood later to ask for blessings.

They stand together in their finest garments. 

“You may now cloak the bride and bring her under your protection.”

Jon’s movements are a bit jerky as he pulls his cloak off. The dragons embroidered on it stand fierce and proud, yet in this moment all Sansa sees is the wolf. Her maiden cloak is lifted off with tender ease. The Targaryen symbol is wrapped around her like her younger self always dreamt of. 

The ribbon is wrapped around their hands; Jon’s calloused palms against her soft skin. Facing him, Sansa sees her future; her world. She is Sansa of House Stark. They are one heart, one flesh, one _soul._

_Say the words._ “I am his and he is mine. From this day, until the end of my days.”

Jon’s lips are parted. It’s with awe, that he leans in and presses his lips to hers. The feeling is becoming familiar and warmth spreads from Sansa’s head to her toes. 

How she has dreamt of this day for years. All she can see is Jon’s dark eyes. All she can smell is his musk. They link their arms together and face the smiling crowd. The union and alliance that many hoped for is real.

She is a Targaryen wife.

— — 

Sansa’s tongue dashes out, swiping along her bottom lip to get any missing crumbs and savor every last ounce of flavor from their dessert. She eyes another cake even though she knows she has had her fair share and then some. 

Looking to her right, she finds Jon staring at her, his eyes darkened. When he realizes he has been caught, he has the decency to look flustered. He shocks her then by extending his hand. “Will you dance with me, my lady?”

Sansa blinks. “But you dislike dancing.”

“I do not— _would not_ mind it so much with you.”

Nodding her assent, Sansa grips Jon’s hand as he leads her to the center of the floor. There is clapping and a few whoops as he takes her into his arms. She cannot imagine feeling more loved in this moment. When Sansa tells him this, he beams. 

Together they spin across the room and Sansa feels freer than a bird in flight.

— — 

The fire’s light makes the bedroom have a more romantic feel, Sansa supposes. Her hair fans around her. Her dress is loosened, but remains in tact. They have left her clothed in fear of retribution from her father, the king, and her new husband. 

Husband. The word is foreign on her tongue. She is someone’s lady wife. 

Her heart beats wildly in her chest. The wedding night is always the hard part, according to the women. Sansa cannot imagine Jon hurting her though. He wouldn’t— not purposefully.

Her fingers are sweaty as she strips down to her shift. Her palms flatten the material repeatedly. Should she remain standing? Lay on the bed? Pose? 

It’s in her moment of apprehension, eyebrows scrunched, that Jon finds her. There’s some hollering that quickly dissipates as he closes the door behind him. His clothes have not faired as well as hers.

He is still for a moment, taking in their surroundings. This bedroom wasn’t hers or his; it’s just now theirs. His gaze settles on her, a smile spreading.

“Sansa,” he says softly. He’s had this _look_ in his eye since their betrothal was announced. It has intensified on their wedding day, but it’s still somewhat unknown to Sansa. She thinks it’s the look of someone _in love_ though, and she hopes it is reflected in her eyes. 

“Jon.”

There’s a hesitancy between them that mimics their first interactions. He shrugs off his boots and somewhat tattered shirt. His cheeks are tinged pink.

“Sansa, may I come closer?”

“Yes,” she replies, remaining firmly in place. 

They stand noses apart, chests heaving in anticipation and unsureness. “I love you, wife,” he says. 

And, all right, it is fine— more than. She is. They are. Nodding, with her arms trembling slightly, she asks, “Show me, Jon?”

The look in his eyes, Sansa recognizes it. The same look he got when he held her close as they kissed the previous times. It is like a blanket of adoration sweeps over her.

She’s still in her shift as he presses her back against the bed furs. His kisses start out timid, lips pressing against her cheeks and eyelids and jaw. His lips move lower and Sansa pulls her shift up to pool around her thighs. Jon has an almost mischievous look in his eyes.

“Sansa, may I try something? That is— I think it will make you feel good. My, uh, brother says so anyways.”

She is not entirely sure what he means, but nods her head in assurance. She watches as her husband slowly removes her small clothes and gently pushes her thighs to the side. His cheeks flush as he gazes up at her. 

Sansa knows the basics; therefore, she can’t understand why Jon’s face is down there. His blush has spread from the tips of his ears to down his neck. He moves closer.

Realization spreads through her as she realizes Jon’s _mouth_ is on her most intimate part. Sansa’s initial cry of shock morphs to one of pleasure. She feels his tongue, warm against her. He makes sucking noises and quiet moans. To her embarrassment, there is wetness coming from her that coats Jon’s lips. He seems undeterred though.

His tongue hits a particular part and Sansa squeezes her eyes shut, crying out. Colors burst behind her eyelids.

When her eyes flutter open, she finds Jon staring at her, pupils blown wide and lips glistening. He is gentle as he begins lifting her shift over her, after gaining her reassurance that this is all _good._

When they are both naked as their name days, Sansa asks, “Do we— that is— may I show you my love too, Jon?”

The lust that has clouded his eyes is taken over by pure devotion as he kisses her. “Yes. I’m sorry this will hurt.”

Sansa nods, hips pressing upwards as if her body knows what she needs before her mind does. When he breaks through her maidenhead, she lets out a small whimper. He stills inside her and lets his head drop beside hers, whispering sweet nothings in her ear. 

It takes her several moments before she urges him to move. His thrusts start slow as her pain begins lessoning. Sansa had expected great agony, but relief swims through her as none has come. 

Her hands wander over Jon’s arms, shoulders, and ribs. Her hips buck, encouraging him to move faster. He shifts angles and hits a particular sweet spot.

“ _Jon!_ ” she pleads. Her mewling seems to excite him as he moves faster, eyes never leaving her face. 

“That’s it, sweetling. So good. So fucking good” he murmurs. His hand moves back to the bundle of nerves he found earlier. Jon’s touch is soft as he begins rubbing. 

Her moans are increasing in loudness, but Sansa cannot find it in herself to be ashamed. He whispers her name like a _prayer_ , as if she is the Maiden. His movements become less graceful. Sansa feels herself tighten around his length. It’s as if they are both on the edge of something. 

They find their relief with each other. Both letting out moans of approval. Jon eases himself out carefully, before laying on the bed next to her. 

“I-I did not think it would be like that,” Sansa says, blushing under his gaze.

“I’m glad it was,” he replies. 

“Mayhaps after a moment of rest, we may do it again,” she suggests. Practice makes perfect.

Then, she’s giggling at how eager her new husband looks at the idea.

— — 

They have gotten quite good at their coupling, Sansa thinks, flushing. And Jon becomes more talkative each time.

“One day I want to put a babe in you,” Jon mumbles softly. “My babe.”

She lets out a cry at his omission. Yes. _Yes._ She wants many babes with him. Dark curly brown haired ones. Red curly haired ones. Ones with Stark grey eyes. She will give him sons and daughters to raise and hold and love.

Sansa nods, incoherent words spilling from her lips.

They will have their own pack to lead.

— — 

They will travel south with the party, back to King’s Landing. Preparations must begin for the heir’s wedding. It will be a celebration throughout the city. The whole family must be there. Jon and Rhaenys next to their brother one more time. 

Sansa is headed towards the land she has dreamt of for ever. She will see the sea, court, and the future queen. Aegon says he misses Daenerys’ companionship; Sansa hopes she is ready to meet this formidable woman.

It feels like her life is coming together the way it was _supposed_ to happen. Still, as she hugs her lady mother a final time, foreheads pressed together and red hairs entangled from the wind, Sansa feels sadness. 

John stands a bit away, exchanging final words with Robb and her father. Sansa feels warmth spread to her cheeks as she catches her husband’s eye. 

Her lips turn down as she squeezes little Rickon and Bran close to her. Their words are muffled, and their hands press hard against her back. They love her. They want to know _all_ about the dragons. They hope she will eat many lemon cakes. 

She walks slowly, joining the men. Robb embraces her as soon as she is close. Her nose presses into his shoulder as he rocks her gently. It’s always been her and Robb. Her brother pats Jon’s shoulder once more, before looking at them. His smile is light as he says, “Farewell, Targaryens.”

“And you, Stark,” Jon says. He meets her gaze, before saying, “I’ll give you a moment, my lady.”

Sansa watches his back retreat before she faces her father. His eyes are kind. Sansa feels jittery, wanting to pull him close and stay put all at once. “I hope I do you proud in King’s Landing, father.”

He reaches out, caressing her chin for the briefest of moments. “You will.” They stand in silence until it is announced they are ready for departure. Her eyes become frantic as she pulls her father into a hug. 

“Goodbye.”

“We will be here,” he says. “The pack survives.”

— —

They stop after several hours to give the horses and themselves a rest. Tables and chairs are set out under trees and Sansa settles there. 

Jon sits next to her, their thighs touching. She thinks of that morning and the way he looked at her, moaning her name, as she rode atop him. Shifting, Sansa smiles at him. 

“It’s not the most pleasant or shortest of journeys one can make after their wedding,” Jon says bashfully.

“It matters not,” she assures. “We are together.”

Jon brings her knuckles to his lips, pressing several kisses on them. Sansa glances around but sees no one is bothered. He does not let go of her hand, but instead encloses it between both of his. 

His eyes are dark with what Sansa is beginning to recognize as passion. “We have to stay at court through Aegon and Daenerys’ wedding. My father will probably wish us to stay longer before heading to Dragonstone.”

“Of course,” she responds. 

“It is not the most homely of places,” Jon says. Sansa wonders which castle he is referring to. His thumb rubs circles along her hand. “But I promise you, Sansa, one day I will bring you back to the North. I will bring you home.”

Sansa doesn't know quite what to say. Doesn't know if that's _possible_. Doesn't know what she wants exactly, besides Jon. Wordlessly, she presses her lips to the back of his hand. Jon can be— _is_ home. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you again everyone for taking the time to read, give kudos, and review this work of mine. It means so much.
> 
> Direct quote from Game of Thrones season 6 episode 5: "The Door" written by David Benioff and D. B. Weiss
> 
> Remember to check out my Tumblr for updates on the rest of the series and more Jonsa in general.

**Author's Note:**

> I'm on Tumblr: thkingslayer


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